When I was a kid, even a teenager — and ok fine 21 and drunk home on summer break — I talked to my pet dogs. I told myself I had this special bond because I was an only child. These were my siblings. I used the only child excuse, and dog therapists are nice because they lick your face, sit on your lap and stare at you like you’re nuts but don’t tell on you. As long as you know you’re a little nuts, that’s the key.
I know I was meant to be a dog owner and I often tell people I think I was a dog in another life. Or maybe it’s that dogs have an ability to spot a person with an illness — seizures in my case — that causes them to simply trust.
When I was little, we had “Binky.” (Now you can fill out about three-quarters of my legal documents.) Binky was a mutt who my parents say taught me how to walk. I remember his fur, poor guy.
After Binky we graduated to the world of yellow labs. Emma was the puppy who never grew up, but lived a long life. Then little Sophie. Before Sophie got old but I did, my parents chose to get a second dog, a chocolate lab named Maddie. One of the best decisions they ever made as dog parents who would soon become grandparents.
Which leads to the story of Fritz.
Fritz was the last dog that my grandpa, “Papa” ever had. Before that we don’t know who’s dog he was, or wasn’t for that matter. He’s the one I think of when I see stories of lost, abused, “up for adoption” dogs in the news.
My mom’s friend from work found Fritz in a dumpster with a cord around his neck. My mom told her that if she had him professionally cleaned and treated for fleas she would take him. She took a chance because Papa said “no,” until he said “yes.” His official name was Schnigelfritz and I believe that dog is the reason Papa lived the last few years of his life.
Papa was cared for by a man named Josef in his later years. Josef was a patient man, a saint. He called Fritz “dog,” probably because he didn’t speak English and didn’t know who we were calling “Fritz.” When it was time to feed Fritz he would say “Come on dog – I feed you now.” It often smelled like dog food in the kitchen at Papa’s house, a sweet smell for the dog lovers among us Vondras. (My grandpa’s last name, my middle name, now you can fill out my income taxes)
Papa made it to my wedding in September of 2003, but passed away less than a year later. When there was no one to take Fritz I didn’t even bat an eye. He moved to my house in Madison, Wisconsin in August of 2004, where he was with me for one of the most profound, life-changing events of my life.
“They say” dogs know before people when a baby is coming and I’m sure that Fritz did. He never left the side of my bed when I was pregnant with my daughter. And then when I was on bed rest in the later weeks, working from home, that old dog was only happy with his head on my big old belly. Then I was looking at Fritz in the hallway of the house when my water broke; it was time.
There must have been a reason that Fritz, certainly showing signs of his age and some signs of failing health, waited for new life to come before he started to let go of his own. There is a reason I was given Fritz for one year, knowing I was blessed with a new life.
I remember learning how to nurse my sweet daughter in the night, all night, while my now ex-husband got up, more and more frequently, with a dog who was losing his battle. It wasn’t even two weeks into my time as a mom.
We put him down but I couldn’t go. That dog was a gift for me, a teacher. He stared at my belly, focused on nothing more than that. Fritz would never make me feel like it was wrong to hold the baby instead. I sobbed when he walked out of the house but I knew he would want me to be where I was.
I always wonder how dogs who are beaten or found with cords around their necks ever learn to trust another human. I know some don’t, but then there are those like Fritz who add years to lives and add warmth to lives. Warmth I didn’t know I needed in mine at the time. Fritz taught me, a woman who has been left under the worst circumstances imaginable, to trust again and then some. To believe in real love. To believe in meant to be.
Sometimes hitting rock bottom makes you the happiest when you find what you have been waiting for.
Seize the Day with Sarah 